


Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t order anything except drinks. Not at first. The waiter brought Rachel a gin and tonic and Michael a scotch on the rocks that he didn’t touch. Instead he drank water, fingers tapping against the rim of the glass anxiously, with his eyes cutting to the door every fifteen minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

**Author's Note:**

> The resemblance between this and wildcard_47's story of the same pairing isn't an accident; we talked about it on tumblr and somehow trolled each other into writing fic. Call it a kind of joint Stockholm Syndrome.

 

 

They didn’t order anything except drinks. Not at first. The waiter brought Rachel a gin and tonic and Michael a scotch on the rocks that he didn’t touch. Instead he drank water, fingers tapping against the rim of the glass anxiously, with his eyes cutting to the door every fifteen minutes. Their menus sat undisturbed on the crisp white tablecloth.

It was a beautiful restaurant. The dining room was huge and softly lit, with broad windows along one side that provided a stunning view of the city lights and street below. Or would have, if they hadn’t been dotted with rain.

She was sure Don must have chosen it. Michael looked completely out of place and also like he knew it. Still, she could tell that he had tried - his oversized blazer was a dark red that washed him out and didn’t match his tie, but she would bet money that he had combed his hair and put on fresh cologne before walking out the door. He had the fresh-faced appearance of a kid at his first job interview. She was reminded of the boys in _shul_ that she and her friends would crush on or laugh at, depending upon their mood.

“Do you go to a lot of client dinners?” she asked because she had to say something. She wouldn’t have exactly called him shy - he had introduced himself readily enough - but he wasn’t talking either. A result of embarrassment, she thought. With good reason.

“Some,” he said, ducking his head. “Uh, not usually alone. Look; can I honest here?”

“There’s nothing stopping you,” said Rachel. She reached for her purse, intending to get a cigarette.

“We both know Don isn’t coming,” he said, and she looked over in surprise.

“I do,” she said, “but I didn’t expect you to admit it.”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“You could make excuses,” Rachel said. “People often do.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” he said, bluntly. “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Katz. I won’t insult you. And it’s not my job to pick up after Don.”

“Rachel,” she said.

“What?”

“I insist anyone who gets stood up with me call me by name.”

“Oh.” He scratched the back of his head. “Um, okay. I’ll do that. Rachel.”

When she smiled lightly at him he attempted to straighten his lapels, elbows akimbo, and almost knocked over his water glass. She felt a rush of amusement. And he had been doing so well.

“Do you have storyboards with you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Don was supposed to bring those. They weren’t mine, anyway. He wouldn’t let me near it.”

Rachel frowned. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re here, in that case.”

“Because Roger Sterling thinks we speak some kind of secret language.”

“Because Roger - of course he does.” Rachel sighed, but it was only to be expected. SCDP was no different than the Westchester clubs that wouldn’t let her family through the door when she was a girl, as though splashing in the same pool would corrupt the other members. They had gone to the Catskills instead. She had learned the steps of the tango up there, had been kissed for the first time under the shade of the pines. Old money, old WASPs and old ideas - there had been no Jewish copywriters at the agency when she had done business with them. Now there was Michael; naturally he had been deputised to deal with her.

“I’m thinking of telling him it’s pig-latin,” he said. “Or Klingon.”

“So no storyboards,” said Rachel. “No Don. And no idea of what the pitch was about, I’m guessing.”

“You guess correctly.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being set up, or I am.”

“You’re being awful nice about it,” he said. “I wouldn’t be. I’d be out the door if I was you.”

“Don may not know how to act,” said Rachel sharply. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean - you _do_ know him, huh?.”

“Something like that,” Rachel said.

He smiled then, quick and crooked. “Yeah,” he said quietly, and looked down at the pristine place setting in front of him.

They sat in silence for the next few minutes. Rachel thought about excusing herself from the table; to go stand in front of the washroom mirror and take stock of herself; to take the elevator four floors down and stand in the doorway of the building and smoke. But if she got up she would give in to the urge to keep going. The last thing she wanted was time to reflect on why she had come down here in the first place. On why, after all this time, Don could still draw her in.

He was the eternal unanswered question. She didn’t mourn him, but that didn’t mean she could stop herself from occasionally prodding at old wounds. But she would only excuse herself so far. Somehow leaving Michael sitting at a table by himself would be letting Don win.

“I’ll pay for your cab home,” Michael said.

“You don’t need to do that,” she told him.

He shrugged. “It’s fine, Rachel. They let you expense claim everything anyway. I’m not on the hook because Don’s a no show. I brought money with me just in case.”

She tilted her head, considering. “They’ll let you expense claim everything.”

“Yeah. Nobody’s expecting that I’d be flush enough to pay for _this_.” He indicated the restaurant with a wave of his hand and a dry sound that didn’t quite make it to a laugh. “I’m not what you’d call swank.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she said. For some reason that made sadness drift across his face, the corners of his mouth turning down, his eyes - large and startled - fixed on hers. She didn’t know how to react to that, so she picked up a menu and opened it.

“Why don’t we order?” she asked.

“We’re staying?” He said it like the decision was entirely in her hands.

“I am. I’m hungry, we’ve been waiting a long time. I expected to have eaten by now.” She looked at him over the top of the menu. He was picking his up as well, but gingerly, as though he wasn’t supposed to be handling it. “You don’t have to pay. I’d like to make that clear.”

“No, I will,” he said, decisively, and followed it up by clearing his throat. “What - what’s good, here?”

“I’ve never been here before,” she said. “We’ll have to discover it together.”

 

 

In the end he got a steak. She ordered them a good bottle of wine and insisted on pouring him a glass. It was a crisp white that wouldn’t pair especially well with red meat, but she doubted he cared.

Rachel got out a cigarette while they waited for the food to arrive. “Hold on,” Michael said and groped at his pockets for a second. He pulled out a book of matches, struck one to life and held the guttering flame in the cradle of his hand. “Here.”

She allowed him to light her cigarette for her. It was almost smooth, except that Rachel caught a glimpse of the half-naked girlie on the cover of the matchbook.

“Where did you get those?” she asked.

He went a little bit pink. “Our art director. He thinks that sort of thing is funny. I just kinda stuck them in my pocket and forgot about it. It’s not, uh, my style. That blue humor stuff.”

“I believe you,” she said. He was more embarrassed about the flash of cartoon nudity than she was. Which had likely been his friend’s aim. “How long have you been working there?”

“About six months, give or take,” he said.

She tapped her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray and blew out smoke. “Do you like it?”

He hesitated. “I - well. It’s a living, right?”

“Is that a no?”

He dropped his gaze without answering and rearranged the silverware. The dessert fork in place of the soup spoon, the soup spoon on the wrong side of his plate. She could see that he blew off nervous energy by fidgeting about; and also that he didn’t understand what most of the cutlery was for. She hoped the waiter wouldn’t mention it when he came back.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Michael. I’m not a spy for your superiors.”

“I like the _work_ ,” he said quickly. “It’s exciting and it’s a lot better than what I was doing before. I see all these old guys around my neighborhood and they got busted knees and busted backs and they’re working, still, because they can’t afford not to. They’ll keep going until they drop dead in the middle of some warehouse or a construction site. And that won’t be me one day, not if I can stick it out here. But I just - I don’t understand it sometimes. The people in it.”

Rachel’s cigarette was half burned down; she stubbed it out and pushed the ashtray aside. “How so?”

“It’s like nothing matters to anyone. If the entire Mohawk fleet went down tomorrow they’d only worry about how it would affect the account. Half the time I’m trying to work and it’s like some party from hell - everyone’s exhausted, but no one wants to admit that they’re not having fun anymore. The higher-ups are sloshed in their offices by noon, there’s always a secretary crying in the ladies. Every time an out-of-town client stops by they go on a bender with the accounts guys and come back looking like corpses the next day. I see more bad hangovers than a bartender. One night some girl crawled up a conference table and flashed her underwear at everyone and it was like it was _normal_. Everyone thought I was a freak for not enjoying it!”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Not to your taste?”

“She was wasted.” He leaned forward with his palms flat to the table, completely earnest. “I may not be a very refined person but even I was raised better than to stick my head up a drunk girl’s skirt. _God_.”

Rachel couldn’t help it; she laughed, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth briefly. “Please tell me that didn’t actually happen.”

“Not literally.” Michael picked up his wine glass and turned it around in his hands. “But close enough. It’s my own fault. I’ve worked at a bunch of these places now and I should know better. I think every time that it’s gonna be different, but it never is.” He smiled in a flat and unhappy way. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone sort of hates their job, right?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I love mine.”

He didn’t offer an opinion; just looked at her. Oh, she thought. You _can_ keep your head down if you have to.

“Having a hard time believing me?” she asked, and raised a hand to stop him when he started to speak. “It’s fine; I’m not offended. Most people do.”

“That isn’t why,” he said, hurriedly. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not because - I don’t mean because you’re a woman. I’ve worked with women. I’ve worked _under_ women. Okay, that sounds - uh - that’s not what I -”

“Michael,” she said, in a patient voice.

“Right, right.” He struggled to pull himself back on track. “It’s just that everyone at the top seems so miserable. I don’t know what it does for them, being an executive. The partners are all on their way to having ulcers the size of baseballs.”

“That’s not the way it is for me,” she said. “Do I seem stressed to you?”

“No,” he said. “No, you seem - pretty calm. In charge of things, I’d say.”

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him. There was a kind of pleasure in watching him come over all bashful when she did. Interesting.

“I’m only telling the truth,” he said.

“You tend to, don’t you?” she asked.

The oddest things made him fall quiet. She didn’t prompt him to speak, letting him take as much time as he needed. “I think,” he said slowly, “I might lie more often if I was better at it.”

Rachel took a sip of her drink and propped her chin on her hand. She was feeling relaxed now, warm and loose from the wine, and thought she would take her jacket off soon. She had picked it as an afterthought because the dark blue offset her gold sheath dress nicely. By itself it had been too dressy; she had wanted to look good, but not so good that Don would get ideas. “I’ve never heard someone admit that out loud before.”

“People do it so much,” he said. “They must be getting something out of it. I’m sure it makes things, I dunno, _easier_. But I would never be able to keep it up. I can’t - focus like that, I’d give myself away.”

“They may be getting less out of it than you think,” said Rachel. “And giving more of themselves away than they’re aware of. Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask -”

“- and he’ll tell you the truth,” Michael finished for her. “I know that one.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Do you?” he shot back, an unexpected challenge.

She rose to it. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Do we always choose the masks we wear? I don’t believe so. I could be wearing one right now and never know it. But I don’t think you are.”

“Maybe that’s you,” he said. “Maybe I don’t _want_ to lie to you.”

She scrutinized him; his clean-shaven cheeks and secondhand tragedy of an outfit. “What a fascinating thing to say,” she said, and he squirmed under the weight of her gaze like a pinned butterfly.

The waiter arrived, two plates of food and a jug of fresh water on his tray. “For the _signora_ ,” he said, and placed her pasta in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, and slipped her arms out of her jacket while he was attending to the steak. When she turned back around from hanging it over the back of her chair she caught Michael’s eye. Only briefly - he looked sharply away, at his plate, but she wasn’t fooled. He had been watching her.

“There’s some cold water there,” she said, picking up her fork. “If you need it.”

 

 

“I worked at the store all through high school,” Rachel said. They were finished with dinner and their plates had been whisked away and replaced with steaming hot mugs of coffee. Neither of them ordered dessert. “Everywhere a person could. I even did stock - I wanted to know everything I could about it. And then I came straight back after Barnard. I think that was a bit of a shock for my father.”

“He didn’t expect you to want a piece of the family business?”

“He expected me to get married. Instead I broke it off with my fiancé and asked for a job at the office.”

“Poor guy,” said Michael with a grin.

“My groom-to-be or my father?”

“The boyfriend.”

“He recovered quickly enough, trust me,” said Rachel. “He got engaged to one of my sorority sisters six months later.”

“Married at haste and repented at leisure.”

Rachel shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen them since an alumni mixer years ago. They could be perfectly happy, or as close to it as anyone gets.”

He studied her openly, eyes roaming across the planes of her face; her eyebrows, her cheekbones, her nose. Her mouth. He didn’t know he was doing it. That much was clear. “I can’t see you being the sorority type.”

His frankness bordered on insulting but there was so little malice in it that she wasn’t bothered. “And what, exactly, is the sorority type?”

“You know,” he said. “Likes to wear those little sweaters tied around her shoulders. Cheers at the football games. Blonde.”

Once, Rachel had watched Betty Draper step out of Don’s car in front of a Macy’s. She had leaned over and kissed him goodbye before she opened the door, rubbing his cheek afterwards to get the lipstick off. She was young, model-pretty. Blonde. Probably cheered at football games.

Rachel remembered that bright hair in the sunlight, how she had prayed for invisibility and waited for the car to merge with traffic before she dared cross the street. Remembered her stomach churning with humiliation. And then she put it out of her mind.

“You’re not wrong,” she said. “Are you sure we don’t share an alma mater?”

“I never went to college,” he said. “Unless you count night school.”

“What did you take? A writing course?”

“Nah. My grand ambition was to be a file clerk. I figured on it getting me off the job site.”

“Construction?”

“Yeah, and I was terrible at it.” He spread his fingers and showed her a small scar on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Put a nail through myself right there. Broke my wrist one day - I didn’t even fall off anything, just tripped over an electrical cord.”

“That could have happened anywhere.”

He snorted. “Only to me. I was supposed to learn how to use a power saw but my boss told me no because he didn’t want to be responsible for my death. At that point it was obvious I needed to move on.”

She took his hand and examined the scar, passing the pad of her finger over it. “Your plan must have worked. I don’t see a whole collection of these. Unless you’re hiding them somewhere.”

“It - it got me in the door,” he said. His voice was much rougher than it had been minutes before. “The rest was just luck. And no - no other scars or, um, weird tattoos. Or anything.”

She let him go. “That’s nice to know.”

He looked so flustered that she almost regretted teasing him. She didn’t intend to upset him, or make him think that she was making fun. But he blushed like a schoolboy. She hadn’t seen anyone react like that in a long time. And she wondered -

“Do you have a girlfriend, Michael?”

“What?” he asked, owl eyed. “Oh - no. No, I haven’t got a girlfriend.”

“No one special in your life at all?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Pity,” she said, and he looked at her so warily that she felt compelled to make an addition. “I meant that as a compliment.”

“Oh,” he said. “Thanks. I’m not very good at it. Being social.” He followed his statement up with a flinch, one of his hands curling tensely into a fist. “I don’t know why I said that. You don’t need to know about any of this crap. It’s not business.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” She drained her coffee cup and set it back down. “I wouldn’t have broached the subject if I wasn’t interested. And we aren’t talking about business. Besides, I’ve been accused of not being so very social myself.”

“Who’d say something like that to _you_?” he asked.

“Women are supposed to be accessible,” she said, dryly. “Easygoing, friendly. We’re supposed to have our heads filled with pretty bright dreams and a smile on our faces. Not be ball-busting bitches who would rather -”

“ - be running a department store,” he finished for her. “I see what you mean.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

“You’ve done an incredible job of it,” he said. “I saw you on the T.V., opening up that second location. That wouldn’t have happened ten years ago.”

“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t have. But I’m not looking to start a chain. That isn’t what I want.”

“So what is it you _do_ want?”

For the first time that night Rachel hesitated. But he kept looking at her in that clear and steady way. “Respect,” she said, finally. “And yet I’m not sure I can do anything differently. We’ll never exactly be Chanel in their eyes, will we?”

“Fuck Chanel,” he said.

She attempted not to look shocked but knew she didn’t succeed; he laughed out loud and grinned irreverently at her.

“Did I say that too loud?” he said. “I’m right, though. What’s Chanel really got that you don’t? Better advertising? Not that, even - the best advertising they ever got was for free. Marilyn Monroe says she likes their perfume and sales skyrocket. Doesn’t matter what it smells like.”

“That was a once in a lifetime occurrence,” Rachel said. “And unfortunately Ms. Monroe isn’t around to repeat it for us.”

“Then make one up,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be real. Nothing in advertising is real. Spread a rumor. Pay an actress to walk down fifth ave. swinging a Menken’s bag into a swarm of photographers for the gossip pages. Someone young, up and coming. Hell, find someone French while you’re at it. Americans love that shit. They think it means class.”

“That’s … very crafty of you, Michael,” she said. She touched her fingers to her lips and considered it. It wasn’t a _bad_ idea. “Very underhanded.”

“That’s the biz.”

“No, I’m impressed.” He openly preened and she felt a laugh rising in her throat. “Behave yourself. I shouldn’t have let you drink so much.”

“I’m not drunk,” he protested. “I’m cheerful.”

“What did you mean when you said ‘Americans’?” she asked. “Do you not count?”

“I do now,” he said. “A naturalized citizen since I was eighteen. Everyone else went to their high school graduation; I went down to immigration office with my father.”

“I would never have guessed,” she said. “You must have come here very young.”

“I was five,” he said. “I was adopted. But - not by an American. Pop came here from Poland. After the war.”

“I see,” she said. “I’m lucky - my family had already been stateside for years.” There wasn’t much else she could do. Of course she understood what he meant - how could she not. But no soothing application of words could help; or if they could, she didn’t know them. It seemed kinder to let a cushioning silence build between them.

“Well,” he said, somewhere between glum and sheepish. “That brought the party down.”

“Not at all,” she said. This, at least, gave her an opening. “I’ve been enjoying myself all evening. I hope you have as well.”

“You kidding?” he said. “I was crazy excited to meet you.”

Once again she let herself look her fill, from the top of his curly head to his scuffed shoes. “Do I disappoint?”

“No,” he said. “Never.”

She glanced towards the windows. The sky had gone dark without her noticing, and the lights were spectacular. She had been right - it was a beautiful view. “Can I ask you one more thing, before we go?”

“Sure you can.”

“You asked me what it was that I wanted,” she said, “and I told you respect. So I’d like to know the same thing about you. Be truthful about it.”

“No masks.”

“Exactly.”

His animated face went solemn and still. It was so quiet in the dining room, the dinner rush long over. The only sound was the clinking of glasses at the bar. Rachel crossed her legs and waited.

“To be noticed,” he said.

 

 

He insisted on paying the check. “I really did bring enough with me,” he said. “I wasn’t kidding about that.”

“And you’re sure you’ll get it back?” she asked. “Leave a message at my office if you have any trouble. I’ll send some money over.”

“I will,” he said, but she knew he wouldn’t. He would take the hit out of pride instead.

She excused herself to go powder her nose. As she passed him she put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed; felt his fingers come up and curl around her wrist for a second. Then he let go. The back of his neck was reddening, a blush spreading up from his collar.

So she stood in front of the washroom mirror like she had pictured herself doing earlier, and she didn’t reprimand herself at all. Instead her skin hummed with excitement. She had already made her decision.

She and Tilden had talked about this before. Rachel thought it was best to be flexible, as long as they were honest with each other. And Tilden wasn’t a jealous man. But neither of them had tested their theory with a practical application. Not yet.

If she was a man, she thought, and Michael was a pretty young woman - she knew where they would end up.

He smiled brightly at her when she got back to the table. “You okay with me walking you out?”

“I’d like that,” she said. Her coat was forest green wool and good at keeping the chill out. Michael helped her with it, holding it up while she slid her arms into the sleeves. He hadn’t brought anything with him but the blazer he wore all through dinner. “No overcoat?” she asked.

“I don’t mind the cold so much,” he said.

He stood at a polite distance as they rode the elevator down. She waited until they entered the lobby to close it.

“The rain stopped,” she said. “Why don’t we go for a walk? Unless you need to be home right away.”

“Nobody’s waiting up for me,” he said. “These work dinners can take forever, and besides that sometimes I go back to the office and get some work done after.”

She linked arms with him and pulled him closer, carefully. They stepped out into a cool breeze and the sound of cars travelling over wet pavement. “I hope your bosses appreciate it.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “But I keep doing it. Some putz I am, huh?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, no.” She slowed their pace a little to a more leisurely stroll; he dropped into step beside her. “There’s nothing wrong with being hardworking.”

“I know,” he said. “But I end up wondering what it’s all for an awful lot.”

“For yourself, I should hope.” When he looked at her she clarified further. “You may be confusing selfishness with simple self-preservation. Stay as long as you need to, and leave when it no longer does anything for you. It’s not your name on the letterhead, now is it?”

“Nope,” he said. “And it never would be. You give really good advice, anyone ever tell you that?”

Rachel smiled. “Occasionally. While we’re on the subject…”

She smoothed down one of his lapels. The fabric was just as coarse as she would have expected, and there were rough spots where threads were coming loose. “This is a bit tragic, in my opinion.”

He groaned theatrically. “Come oooon. It’s just a jacket, who cares. Why do women always notice my clothes, anyway?”

“Because we have _eyes_ ,” she said. “And unlike men we aren’t fooled by poor dressing. Men think makeup is beauty.”

He frowned. “I don’t follow”

“To trot out an old saw: you’re hiding your light under a bushel.” She adjusted his collar, and didn’t miss the way he swallowed when her fingers brushed his neck. “The fit is all wrong, and this red is too harsh - cooler colors would suit you better. A nice navy or a light gray could work with your complexion. You should come by the store sometime. We’ll fix you up.”

“Didn’t know I had a complexion,” he muttered, alight with embarrassed pleasure. “Too bad Menken’s is too rich for my blood.”

“I’ll give you a discount,” she said. “A good one.” She would have given it to him for free if she thought he’d take it.

“You’re just trying to see me again,” he said, and immediately covered his face with his hand in horror. “God, I’m an _idiot_. Rachel, please ignore that. I should never tell jokes. Actually, I shouldn’t speak at all.”

It was as clear an opportunity as she was going to get. “I don’t see any reason to wait,” she said. “We could go get a hotel room.”

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Rachel suspected that he would have walked away entirely had she not been holding on to him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to be an offer.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “You’re serious. _Why_.”

“Because I think we might understand each other,” she said. “That’s rare enough not to throw it away.”

Pressed against him as she was, she could feel him take a heavy breath. He was tense all through his back and shoulders but no longer seemed coiled to flee if she let him go.

“Yes,” he said. “I - _yes_.”

 

 

They took a taxi to the hotel. Neither of them spoke on the drive over. They barely touched, except when Rachel put her hand on Michael’s knee and he tangled their fingers together without turning away from the window.

In the elevator he was the one to press the button for their floor. There was no attendant, and as soon as the doors closed he asked, faltering, “Can I kiss you?”

“How polite,” she said, and backed him up against the wall.

He was yielding when she kissed him, when she slipped her hands under his jacket and felt the shape of him underneath his baggy shirt. His chest rose and fell rapidly; she raised one hand and pressed her thumb to his chin to open him up for her. He gasped into her mouth, the back of his head hitting the wood panelling with a thump.

“Oh,” he said, hoarse and low. It didn’t sound like he was in pain.

She murmured some kind of assent and kissed him again. He leaned into it and she hooked a foot around one of his ankles and kicked his legs apart so she could get in between them.

The elevator doors popped open.

“I believe that’s our stop,” she said.

He bit his lower lip, which was appealingly kiss-swollen and pink. “Jesus Christ.”

When she slid the key into the lock he put his hand on her hip, very lightly; disbelieving. Rachel found she could work with that. She had not gone into this expecting - or wanting - to be swept off her feet.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Have a drink if you want. I need to make a quick phone call.”

It was a standard hotel room. Some bland art on the walls, a wingback off to one side in front of a television cabinet, a small wardrobe for hanging clothes in. The bed, with its thick covers already turned down. But he looked around like he’d never seen the inside of one before. It was possible that he hadn’t. She stood with the phone in her hand and a dial tone in her ear while he went from one end of the room to the other, picking things up and examining them.

“You think they really give you free shampoo?” he asked.

“Go check,” she said, and phoned Tilden when he disappeared into the bathroom.

She was just finishing the call when he reappeared. “Soap, too,” he said. “And that tub is the size of my bedroom.”

“Come here,” she said.

He didn’t; instead he lingered in the doorway, one foot out and one foot in. “Was that your husband you were talking to?”

“Yes. It was.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“Do you need his permission?” she asked.

“No!” he said. “I didn’t - I don’t want to wreck anything for anyone.”

“Michael,” she said, more firmly this time. “Come here.”

He walked towards her with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. And then she took a couple of steps back. “I want you to undress.”

“Right here?” he asked in apparently genuine bewilderment.

“We _are_ in a bedroom,” she said. “I can’t think of a better place.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, how - where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever you feel comfortable,” she said.

He let out a long, unsteady breath. “I _don’t_ feel comfortable.”

“Can you try? For me?”

After a minute he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll, um, start with my shoes. I guess.”

He toed them off and knelt down to roll off his socks. “Do you want me to do anything for you?” he asked, touching the arch of her foot, her ankle.

“When the time comes,” she said. “I didn’t say to stop, did I?”

“Holy fuck,” he said, and rested the side of his overheated face against her calf. She let him take a moment to compose himself.

“I’m glad you agree,” she said with a sharp smile and tugged lightly at the hair at the base of his skull. “Now get up.”

He rose in his bare feet and stripped out of his jacket. She took it in one smooth motion out of his hands and dropped it over the back of the chair. He unbuttoned his shirt - slowly, starting at the top - and she did the same with that. But when he reached for his belt he balked, his hands freezing on the buckle.

“Keep going,” she said.

He was starting to breathe harder and he couldn’t quite meet her eye; still, he lifted his chin defiantly and pulled the leather through his belt loops.

“Good,” she said, and stroked the back of her fingers along the line of his jaw as a reward. He turned into it and then got back to work.

The pants went next, stepped out of and nudged aside. “Almost there,” she said, and looked him up and down. He was starting to flush, right down his chest and beneath his undershirt. And he was hard.

“I see this is working for you,” she said, and traced the line of his cock through his underwear. Rubbed just beneath the head until his breath was hitching and she could feel precome seeping through the fabric.

“ _Rachel_ -”

She hooked her fingers under the waistband of his boxers. “Get the rest off and we’ll talk.”

He peeled off the undershirt and let it fall to the floor. And then, eyes closed, he pulled off his shorts and stood naked and shivering before her. On display, like she’d asked for.

“Beautiful,” she said. She walked around him in a circle, touching where she pleased; brushing her palms over his shoulders and down his back, dragging her nails up his ribs. She watched goosebumps break out on his skin. He didn’t know what to do with his hands; they twitched with banked energy, hanging by his sides. But he didn’t try and touch her. She hadn’t given him permission yet.

He kept his eyes closed the whole time. She came to a stop in front of him and skimmed the delicate sweep of his eyelashes with the very tips of her fingers. “Look at me, Michael.”

He opened his eyes and she showed him her back, tucking her hair over her shoulder so it was out of the way. “Unzip me?”

She let him slide her dress off her shoulders and down her hips. He was enamoured with her stockings, following the seam up to the lace at the top with his hands. She had him take those off for her as well. He unclipped them from her garters with care and put them on the chair with his clothes.

Rachel shed her bra and panties herself, but not in a hurry. She was enjoying the anticipation, the heat and ache that pooled between her legs.

She took Michael’s hand and she led him to the bed.

Well, that wasn’t quite the truth. _She_ got on the bed, reclining back on the piled up pillows, but when he tried to do the same she put one of her feet against his shoulder and pushed. “Down,” she said, as he sank to his knees.

He made an incredible noise of frustration. One she could never get tired of hearing. “Rachel, _please_.”

“You can touch my legs,” she said. “My hips. But not my breasts. And not,” she parted her thighs and ran her fingers through her hair, pressed them into the wet cleft of her mound, “not _here_. Not yet. And keep your hands off yourself.”

He pressed a kiss to her ankle. The tenderness of it was a jolt of electricity to her spine. “You giving me an order?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you follow it?”

He raised his eyebrows, insolent. “You think I can’t?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and spread herself with her fingers. To hear him gasp, yes, but also because she was slick and throbbing and didn’t want to wait any longer.

She smeared her own wetness across her palm, pushed her fingers in with a bitten-off cry. Two of them, _not_ gently - she fucked herself with a roll of her wrist. Her forehead furrowed at the stretch of it, just to the right side of sore. At the pulse she could feel inside her own body.

Michael pulled her legs apart - because she never told him _not_ to - and put his open mouth on the ticklish spot behind her knee, because she didn’t tell him not to do that either. His hips jerked against the blankets but he kept his hands on her and only her.

She started to rub her clit at the same time he scraped his teeth against the line of her hip. “ _Shit_ ,” she cursed, and twitched when he blew a warm breath over her flesh.

“I’m not touching,” he murmured. “I’m not breaking the rules.”

Instead he sucked a bruise into her inner thigh while her fingers moved quicker and quicker, while her breath came faster and she started to whimper in the back of her throat. Instead he licked a stripe where her thigh met her pelvis, sloppy and _indecent_ -

“Oh my god,” she said, and pulled her fingers out of herself to - to -

It didn’t matter, it didn’t because his hand closed around her wrist and he licked across her fingers too, between them, _tasting_ her and she had him, grabbed him by the hair and bit at his lips.

She panted, scrabbling at him, grinding against the thigh he pushed between her legs. “You impatient, _rude_ boy,” she said, and shoved him backwards while he shook with laughter.

“You never said hands were off limits, you never did, I - ow -” he hissed, flinching at the sting of her teeth on the side of his neck, eyes wide and his pupils huge. “Not fair, Rachel -”

“Nothing’s fair,” she said, and yanked his arms up to the headboard. “Hold on to this. _Stay put_.”

He wanted to move; his toes curled against the sheets and he shifted restlessly. But he remained quiet as she rummaged through the clothes on the floor.

“You need something to help you keep still,” she said, and picked up his discarded belt.

“Oh,” he said, as his shoulders went slack. “Oh, okay - god, _yes_ , Rachel please -”

“Shhh,” she said. He was still gripping the wood with white knuckles. “Let me do it.”

The headboard was heavy oak, carved into a row of small posts with a ornate beam on top. Rachel looped the belt around one of the posts and then around his wrists. She tightened it enough so that he couldn’t move, but made sure she could fit a finger between the leather and his skin. The fun would be over too soon if his circulation got cut off.

He nuzzled at her breasts while she got him set up. “What were your instructions?”

“Is that condition still in place?” He affected his most innocent expression; given that he was tied up and naked it just made him look debauched.

She kissed his mouth and the hollow of his throat and pressed her ear against his chest to listen to his heartbeat; it quickened as she did and Michael cursed softly. He wasn’t goofing around anymore. When she looked back up at him it was like a layer had melted away; he looked - raw, somehow. Vulnerable.

She pushed her hips against his and he bucked up off the bed. “Enough of that,” she said, using her advantage to pin him to the mattress.

“Sorry,” he said with a groan. “I can - I’ll do better.”

“You will,” she said. She rubbed herself against the length of him, the head of his cock catching against her clit every time she moved. For him, so that he could feel how wet she was; how ready - and for herself. He felt so good against her. “What if I only did this?” she asked, her eyes falling shut. “If I used you and left you to take care of yourself after?”

“I’d give you anything,” he confessed. “Anything you want - if you want -”

“I want _this_ ,” she said, and took him deep inside her. It was - ah, it was gorgeous, him filling her up the way she needed. “I want to take this from you, I want you to give it to me -”

“Yes,” he said, and she did - she took as much as she wanted, let her body _have_ him.

“Don’t you come before me,” she said. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He fucked her the way she had been craving and it was clumsy and filthy and _perfect_. All instinct and desperation and no technique. She dug her nails into his shoulders when she wanted him to slow down or go faster and he was going to be all scratched up - the kind of messy sex where she couldn’t stop, couldn’t _think_ -

“ _Michael_ ,” she said, and trembled through a climax that left her weak and shaky. The aftershocks were - god, she could still feel it in her legs.

He’d stopped - why had he _stopped_ -

“Is that, is that - do you you need -” He kept trying to get the words out but he couldn’t; he looked miserable -

She let him slip out of her and he whined, screwing his eyes shut. So he didn’t see her bend down over him. Didn’t see her mouth at the head of his cock or suck him down.

He shouted and yanked at his bonds. They held fast; the headboard smacked against the wall.

She didn’t get far; a swipe of her tongue against the side of his shaft and he was gone, absolutely _gone._ But she had expected it and she swallowed around him until he was shuddering from sensitivity instead of pleasure.

His cheeks were wet. She frowned and turned his face towards her by his chin. He blinked a few times.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m - can you get the belt off me?”

She released him quickly with a cursory check of his wrists; they were in fine shape. There was a small dent in the drywall behind the bed but she didn’t mention that.

He collapsed against her with a sigh. “That was amazing. I don’t know what I expected, but - whoa.”

“Whoa,” she repeated, fondly, and carded a hand through his wrecked hair.

He shuffled closer to her, yawning. “Can we stay here for a bit? I doubt I can stand up and put my clothes on right now.”

“We have all night if you need it,” she said.

“A few minutes is all,” he said, and was asleep in seconds.

 

 

Rachel unbuttoned her coat, looking out the window of her office. After a couple weeks of sunshine the sky was clouding over again; it was shaping up to be a rainy autumn. She couldn’t find her umbrella that morning - one of the kids probably took it to school - and would need to remember to send Sandra out for one before she left for the day.

There were fresh quarterly reports on her desk. She settled into her chair and picked one of them up, but hardly got time to crack open the cover before a knock at the door interrupted her.

Sandra peeked into the room. “Do you want your messages now or later?”

“Now,” she said.

Sandra came in and closed the door. “There were four,” she said, fishing for the reading glasses that were in her cardigan pocket. “The tailor called and said you can pick up your black gown tomorrow, but the pink one won’t be ready until Friday. Apparently something to do with the beading.”

“It itches,” Rachel said. “They’re removing most of it from the neckline. What else?”

“Jonathan Tomlinson called to cancel again, his flight got delayed. His secretary will connect with me when he gets back.”

Rachel marked the cancellation into her day planner. “Did his wife get the wine I sent over?”

“Yes, and she loved it. She wrote a thank-you card, and also phoned to see if you’re free for tennis next week.”

Rachel sighed. “Why can’t these people ever just go to the theater, or to dinner? I hate discussing business while wearing running shoes. It’s unnatural.”

“The last is… odd. I’m not sure it’s for you at all.” Sandra gave a disapproving sniff and turned a page in her logbook. “Someone named Michael Goldberg called. He said something about a jacket? I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him.”

“Could that possibly be Ginsberg, not Goldberg?” Rachel asked. She kept her voice as nonchalant as possible. Sandra’s writing was famously illegible, even to herself. It might not mean anything.

Behind her smudged glasses Sandra’s eyes scanned the page. “Could be. I put him through to alterations twice but he insisted it was you he wanted to talk to.”

Rachel held out her hand. “Can I see that?”

“Oh,” said Sandra. “If you want to.” Typically she took care of returning the calls, unless it was a family member or a personal issue.

“I need to make a private call,” Rachel said.

But she didn’t, after Sandra left. Not right away. She looked at the scrawled message and thought about it. The name was half-illegible but the number was clear enough. Was it home? Work? He must have been so nervous.

The store had received a new shipment for the men’s department only the day before. Rachel had chosen much of it herself. There was a style of a suit she had favored particularly; slim cut in a subtle herringbone. Came in a range of colors, too.

She would like to see it on him, she decided, and reached for the phone.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
